Life, Love and Liberty
by Widu
Summary: Collection of random one-shots, centered around Anders.
1. Down in the Dark

Author's note: a take on the Anders-centered Manifestos Welcome group challenge themed: "Misguided."

Summary: Darktown rule nr. 1: keep your filthy paws off the healer. But some people decide that doesn't apply to them... Set during the earlier Acts of Dragon Age II.

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><p><strong>Down in the Dark<strong>

It's never completely quiet, not even at night. There is always the noise of dripping moisture, the scrabbling of rats, the lone cries of pain and panic and the sounds provided by Coterie and Carta to top off the special blend that is Darktown.

Curled up in the vaguely Anders-sized shape in the straw-filled sack he tends not to notice anything at all. As soon as he has closed up the clinic and stripped off his clothes he just collapses into an exhausted sleep, protected only by the blanket Lirene has given him and the vigilance of the Fereldan refugees.

He doesn't trust them, but he relies on them to keep him and his secrets safe. So far it has worked; they defend the man who heals their wounds, delivers their children and treats their illnesses with a fierce devotion until the darkness claims them. A life is worth little enough here; those who dare harm the healer find theirs snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

In the pitch black Darktown night Anders is dead to the world as per usual when the shadows creep up on him. There is a hissed conversation and suddenly he finds himself dragged upright and slammed into the crumbling wall. The shutter is removed from a lantern and the clinic bathes in a yellow glare.

Anders has never been a very strong fighter, but he manages to avoid the swing of a rough wooden cudgel aimed at his head. With a snarl its owner twists one of the mage's arms behind his back in a way that leaves him gasping. In the haze of pain preventing his spellcasting Anders curses himself with each ragged breath. Despite his paranoia he has grown careless; not even in his days of running from the Circle has he forgotten to at least bar the door if he had one handy. He must have been too tired.

His attackers are Marchers both, neither of them more than twenty. The youngest, the one holding up the lantern, he treated for an ugly stab wound a mere night ago. "I see you've healed up nicely," Anders remarks coldly and winces when the grip around his wrist tightens.

"Shut up," the other man growls. "Where are your medicines? Potions. Salves. Herbs. We want them all."

"That must be some embarrassing personal problem you have."

Another vicious tug. "Watch your mouth, apostate," the young man spits. "We'll take all you have and _we'll _decide who gets what. No more free care for mages, doglord refugees, faithless men and loose women. Give them up now."

"Forget it."

Maintaining the wristlock the man shoves him roughly into the wooden examination table and slams the cudgel into the mage's back again and again with a ferocity that speaks more of hatred than greed. "It's the will of the Maker! His children... that's _us_. _You_ are accursed in His eyes! Give up your supplies _now_!"

While his companion looks on anxiously he abruptly drops his makeshift weapon with a startled cry as if burned. Anders watches the blue glow dance over his naked skin as he straightens, his eyes blazing with blue fire. Lightning crackles around his fingertips. Now both would-be thieves are screaming.

"Andraste's sword, the apostate's a demon!" the younger man moans in a shaky voice. At the word _demon _the blue flames disappear from the mage's eyes and they revert to their natural shade of brown. There is little kindness in them however. When the intruders have stumbled and clawed their way out of the clinic, Anders falls to his knees, dizzy with weakness.

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><p>"This way, ser!"<p>

The templar hunter's heavy footfalls echo in the narrow alleyway. It is daytime, but in Darktown it might as well not be. He follows the two youths through the suffocating gloom, gauntleted hand on the short blade at his side.

"The maleficar's in there!" The taller of the two points to a decrepit set of stairs that leads to the apostate's hidden lair. Neither of his guides seems to dare come any closer.

"Be careful, ser," the other one warns. "He's nothing human."

The templar nods gravely within his narrow-slitted helmet. His blade slides free of its scabbard with a sigh. He takes another step forward, then shifts his balance and plunges the dagger into the nearest man's heart without missing a beat. His companion barely has time enough to scream when the templar whips off his helmet to reveal a head full of dishevelled black hair and a pair of golden-brown eyes burning with something else entirely than religious fervor.

"B-but... he's a demon," the young man breathes in disbelief. "He's dangerous. He is death and destruction..."

Gaelen Hawke reverses his grip on the dagger and the words die in the young Marcher's throat. "He's not," he says softly, wiping the blade on the corpse's sleeve. "Sorry. That would be me."


	2. Complications

Author's note: my take on the Anders-centered Manifestos Welcome group challenge themed "Cheeky."

Summary: Isabela and Anders find creative ways to pass the time and keep the templars busy. Set pre-Dragon Age: Awakening.

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><p><strong>Complications<strong>

Isabela awoke on something soft and warm. Last night she'd expected nothing more than meeting the mother of all hangovers in the morning, but this noble plan'd been unexpectedly complicated. Carefully, she rolled off the complication, who was snoring softly, and sat up next to him.

He was a few years younger than she, this runaway mage with his mane of dirty blonde hair that he proudly wore in a manner that she could only call – sorry Sanga – cocky. He wasn't as muscled as she normally liked her men, but he was lanky, and she liked lanky. She touched a finger to the smooth skin of his back and stroked it, tracing idle figures until he woke.

She nearly laughed out loud; the playful brown eyes were nice, but their current expression better suited a sleepy kitten than a man who valiantly tried to tame the pirate scourge of two coastlines. She settled for purring: "Good morning, sweet thing."

He gave her a lazy smile. "True! I'm still here. It's already a wonderful day. No templars yet..."

Her toes caressed the back of his legs. "Hmm, should I expect large armoured men to break down the door any minute?"

"Well, not any minute..."

"Pity."

"Eventually they'll catch me, though. Always do. They began recruiting women, you see. The male templars never stopped to ask for directions."

"You talk too much."

A charming smirk flashed over his sharp face. "I like talking.

She grinned. "Believe me, I've noticed."

He rolled onto his back and winced. "Ouch. Might have pulled something."

Isabela made a face. "Told you your arms were too thin. You mages and your delicate disposition."

A soft glow enveloped his fingers and settled over him as he looked back smugly. "Healer."

She swatted him. "Good thing you are too."

Suddenly he frowned. "Do you have a mirror?"

She wordlessly handed one to him, merely arching an eyebrow. He replied with a shrug. "See, I usually wear this gold earring, but for some inexplicable reason I'm now wearing one of yours."

"Hey, give that back!" There was a brief struggle in which she managed to obtain the gem-studded earring and he wrestled himself on top of her holding the mirror in front of her face. "Behold," he grinned wickedly, "the only human being who can fully satisfy you."

"Cheeky sparklefingers," she chuckled, "nothing wrong with your performance and you know it. And I finally got my answer to a burning question."

"Which is?"

"What it is that mages have under their robes?"

"Ah." He flopped back on her pillows, one hand supporting his chin. "Well, for a complete answer to that you should really visit the Circle Tower."

"Why's that? What is it that mages have under their robes _there_?"

He leaned over until his mouth was level with her ear and whispered: "_More_ mages."

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><p>There were three of them, all in full plate armour. Isabela would have been proud to see it, if she'd still been at the Pearl. After some brief, reluctant directions from Sanga the templars stomped into Isabela's room to apprehend the apostate, who greeted them cheerfully and with a very small, apologetic, jingling handwave.<p>

The leading templar groaned and covered her helmeted face with her palm. "Maker's breath. Blasted, blighted, flaming Anders. Get someone to find the key to the bloody handcuffs!"


	3. Silence in the Library

Author's note: this is my take on the Anders-centered Manifestos Welcome group challenge. This week's theme: "Silence." And yes, I happen to be a Doctor Who fan ;)

Summary: Anders wants to have fun. Karl wants a nice, quiet day to himself. An ancient evil wants to eat mage apprentices. Someone will have his way... (hint: it's not Karl.) Set in the Circle Tower pre-Dragon Age: Origins.

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><p><strong>Silence in the Library<strong>

Karl Thekla's favourite space in the Circle Tower has to be its library. He cherishes the smell of the lovingly-cared for books, the muted footfalls of soft shoes and slippers on the marble floor and the rustle of turned pages, like leaves. Those are the only sounds that ripple through the calming silence, and they do not break it – they enhance it, as if the library is a pond and the books and the mages its plants and wildlife.

Well. Most days, that is. Today a constant stream of noise from a corner makes it virtually impossible for him to concentrate on the ancient Tevinter text in front of him. He's made one ridiculous error already by accidentally switching two syllables, turning the word into something that, if he recalls correctly, is a mild and grammatically incorrect obscenity.

Anders has seated himself and his female companion in a rarely frequented nook in the Unstable Solutions section. Their conversation consists of barely stifled whispers and a lot of snickering, while his hands wander everywhere but to the books and papers on the table.

She, of course, has every reason to be free with her affections. The time for her Harrowing is near, and while Karl has confidence in her abilities, there is always a chance the ritual ends with her death. He just wishes the two of them would take this ritual of a wholly different nature someplace else.

His exasperated gaze crosses that of Wynne, senior enchanter and one of Anders' long-suffering tutors. The elderly woman shakes her head, takes on her give-Anders-a-talking-to expression and walks over to the young mages' niche. The girl pushes back her chair and flees before Wynne's determined advance. Anders grins at her, his brown eyes full of badly feigned innocence.

Wynne flicks through a few pages of his assorted 'notes' and raises one snowy eyebrow. "Well," she says at last, "at least your grasp of basic anatomy has improved over the years. Though I doubt young ser Cullen would be pleased with the likeness – or with being eaten by a... fluffy demon?"

"It's a cocoafiend," Anders explains helpfully. "Derived from the sin of Craving Chocolate. Yes, I thought you'd like that."

"I... see. And these?"

"New spells?"

Wynne eyes over various entries respectively titled _Charm Plant, Locate Self, Detect Detect Magic _and _Detect Eamon. _She sighs. "'Detect Eamon?'"

He smirks. "Well, we're pretty close to Redcliffe. Can't be too careful... oh, you may not want to see the next-" He blushes slightly when Wynne stares at the helpful illustration of _Rigby's Assertive Finger._ "Er, it's also quite useful for making shadow pictures," he adds lamely.

Wynne rubs her face, both in frustration and to hide a smile. "Anders," she eventually manages in her usual admonishing tone, "this is a _library_. You're free to waste your time on more of these... findings, but do so in _silence._"

He gives her his most virtuous nod, to which she reacts with a snort before leaving for her private quarters, a slender volume marked _The Rose of Orlais _tucked under one arm. Anders saunters over to Karl, who has been following the exchange with a spark of amusement in his blue eyes. His peace and quiet now thoroughly shattered, the older mage evidently has given up.

Anders playfully thumps his shoulder. He does feel somewhat guilty now, but bolstering Wynne's already considerable ego by admitting that seemed a bad idea. "Andraste's knickers, you're tense," he murmurs, further prodding Karl's shoulder muscles. "You need some loosening up."

Karl taps the younger mage's nose with a pencil. "Not this time. And certainly not in the flaming _library_."

"Relax," Anders whispers, "I'm not going to jump you. Well, not unless you want me to."

Suddenly more serious, Karl runs a hand through his rapidly greying dark hair, over his face, down the grey stubble on his cheeks. He perches onto the back of his chair, his feet on its seat, in order to escape Anders' teasing fingers and to better look into the laughing brown eyes. "I know you, Anders," he says softly. "You're getting restless again. And you're _planning_ again, aren't you?"

Anders says nothing, though his mouth feels dry.

"You know how it will end," Karl continues in a pleading tone. "You run, they haul you back, whip you, you have to sleep face down for days and Tower children think you're their hero. It isn't worth it. It isn't even sensible."

Anders stares at his feet. "I don't do sensible. You know that. It-"

His voice trails off when Finn, his meticulously clean robes flapping around him, storms into the library. Sharp words die on Karl's lips as he sees the panic in the young mage's face. "The summoning," Finn pants. "It went wrong! A... a _thing_ emerged from the fonts ! It killed Geoffrey!"

Karl jumps off the chair, which clatters to the floor. Anders sees his own horror mirrored on his closest friend's face. _There are no senior enchanters present anymore, but plenty of apprentices. And we cannot get out. We are trapped. _

Screams rip apart the silence, one cut off into a wet gurgle. A small flock of apprentices accompanied by one newly Harrowed and one elderly mage bursts into their section of the library. Their eyes are wide and almost black with fear, their faces ashen. Behind them follows an armoured creature, roughly man-shaped but larger by at least two heads, cloaked in swirling shadows. Two glowing points of baleful red light flare up from the helmet like embers and as it extends a black hand towards the terrified mages, one of the apprentices glides towards it, his eyes rolling back in his head. The only mercy is that he has likely fainted long before he slides to the floor, his body a bone-dry, desiccated husk.

A curtain of flame springs from Karl's fingertips to engulf the creature, which roars in fury.

"Finn!" Anders grabs the bookish mage by the scruff of his robes. "The jade dragon statue two sections from here. Trace a warding glyph on the base. There's a secret passage into the hall."

Even frightened out of his wits, Finn nods, collects the remaining mages and apprentices around him, clustering the youngest and the most vulnerable together under the protection of a small bubble of protective energy. It prevents them from using their own powers, but as they run for their lives towards the statue Anders described, that hardly matters.

Anders turns his head to avoid Karl's questioning gaze. "Yes, well, some things are more important than I am," he mutters.

Karl's conjured flames die down. When the shadows surrounding the unholy entity in front of them wash over its burns, the thing regains its unmarred appearance.

"Andraste's arse," Anders groans, "where are the bloody templars when you _need_ them?"

"Use fire," Karl replies tersely, aiming a fireball that scorches the hairs on his arms. Anders does the same, but realizes his repertoire of offensive spells is far more limited than Karl's. _Maker's blood, I'm a healer, not a hero!_

The creature turns towards Karl. In a reflex, Anders binds his friend to the spot with a glyph of restraint, yet the desperate act also restricts Karl's own movement. Anders grits his teeth. _Think of something, you fool. Oh, and running away doesn't count. _

More fire. Karl stirs, curses, collects a ball of lightning in his palm and flings it forward, stopping the thing's advance once more. By now a desperate plan has formed in Anders' head. "Back!" he shouts. Karl obeys, frowning. "Be ready to throw all the lightning you have at the bastard!"

Sweat beading on his forehead, Anders concentrates to aim his last modest fireball very, very carefully at the large silverite chandelier with the sparkling crystals aptly named 'frozen lightning' that adorn it.

The noise it makes when it crashes down on top of the creature and effectively pins it in place is deafening. The crystals splinter on impact, releasing their energy. They combine with Karl's powerful lightning spell to form a blinding, crackling ball of white fire that is impossible to look at. When the last tinkle of broken crystal is gone, the last of the lightning has grounded itself and the half-molten metal stops making cooling noises, all that is left of the creature is a small pile of ash and a few half-burned rags.

Slowly, Anders' heart stops racing. When his blood is no longer pounding in his ears, he closes his eyes, listening carefully, his head slightly cocked to one side.

"What is it?" Karl demands. "I don't hear anything."

Anders looks at him with a knowing smile and a wink. Karl heaves a deep sigh.

_Great. Silence in the library._


	4. Drowning Sorrows

Author's note: Mainfestos Welcome! Theme: "Delirious."

Summary: Set right after the Deep Roads expedition. Gaelen Hawke returns from the Deep Roads only to find his sister Bethany taken by templars ands responds by getting hopelessly drunk. Anders decides to pick up the pieces.

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><p><strong>Drowning Sorrows<strong>

"...and the only trace they found of the Nug Man was a black-bladed axe, buried in the wall," Varric finishes his tale. It leaves Gaelen Hawke more than a little bewildered. "He... turned into an axe?"

Isabela nearly splurts a mouthful of whiskey across the table, but settles for a laughing fit that brings tears to her eyes. Hawke's puzzled expression only makes it that much worse. Varric looks helplessly at Fenris and Anders. Watching Hawke drink himself silly is good entertainment, but the way he's knocking them back will either make him pass out or kill himself.

Poor Bethany. When they returned from the Deep Roads, filthy, hungry, thirsty and with Varric calling his brother every name in the book – his book, anyway; come to think of it, he may have to bring out a new volume for the occasion – they had a hearty meal and a bath and then sought out Bethany in Lowtown, to tell her the good news and invite her to celebrate.

When they got to Amell's hovel, it was crammed with templars. Bethany was wearing Circle robes and it had taken her brother less than a heartbeat to realize what was going on. Nevertheless he asked, and in no uncertain words. "Young mistress Hawke's cooperation is what spares you the punishment for harbouring an apostate," their commander replied sternly.

"You're not taking h- _ow_!"

"My apologies on behalf of messere Hawke, on whose toes I just inadvertently but heavily trod and _just might again,_" Varric told the knight-captain, while Fenris' lyrium-tattooed hand closed around Hawke's wrist in a vicelike grip to prevent him from punching the nearest templar in the nose. After a tearful goodbye, Bethany left with them, and lady Leandra sank to the floor, sobbing. That new volume was just getting bigger and bigger.

After Hawke comforted his mother to the best of his ability and with half a glass of brandy, he followed the others to the Hanged Man where Norah and Corff are now giving him pointed looks.

"So what do we do with him?" Varric mouths quietly. "Can't deliver him home like this."

"He can stay at my place," Fenris shrugs. "But if they really want that estate back, it might not be such a good idea to have its heir dragged through Hightown drunk."

Isabela grins. "Well, I could..."

"No," the other three flinch in unison.

"I guess that settles it," Varric grumbles. "He stays here, though if I need to carry him he'll probably end up with a head injury. Blondie?"

With some effort, Anders hauls a protesting Hawke to his feet, drapes one of the other man's arms over his shoulders and leads him step by step to Varric's suite. Once inside Hawke collapses in front of the merrily crackling fireplace, dragging Anders down with him in a complicated heap of leather, tangled limbs and feathers.

"Mmph," Hawke groans. "Blondie. Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Is this me?"

"No..."

"Oh yeah," Varric remembers sheepishly. "I only have the one bed."

"This rug looks comfortable enough," Anders says, disentangling himself. "What did you kill for it, a long-haired bronto?"

Varric smirks. "Well, sure. Though I'm warning you, if he ruins it, you owe me a long-haired bronto."

"I'll have it delivered to your doorstep," Anders promises.

When Varric has retired to his bedroom, Hawke peers up at Anders and gives him small wave. "Still here? Din't they drag you 'way to some circle or square too?" His hand weakly trails one side of Anders' face. The sensation, however inappropriate, makes the mage bow his head and briefly close his eyes.

"Steal me too, see if they don't," Hawke mumbles. "Arseholes to the lot of 'em, I say, 'm no mage. See, no dress. Father was one." He furrows his brow. "Mage. Not dress. Mother's no mage. Family's lots of mages though. And dresses. And an uncle, unfortune'tly. Can go bugger a nug. Thinks father messed up my name jus' to spite him. Gamlen. Sounds like pork anyway."

He looks faintly pleased as Anders brushes back the hair from his forehead, tries to catch his hand and fails. "Thing is..." He pauses as he tries to think of a thing. There definitely was a thing, but his brain feels like it has gone on a Deep Roads expedition all of its own. "Anyway. You said I should think 'bout it in all the detail I fancy." He makes a face. "Can't see m'self being with men," he tries to clarify vaguely. "Can see m'self being with you though. Does that mean you're female?"

Anders cannot help but smile. " Last time I checked... no."

He waits patiently until Hawke's confused musings give way to soft snores. Because he can't resist – and because he wants to get back at Justice for not letting him get drunk anymore – he breaks his rule about the use of healing magic by letting a spark of it settle over Hawke's sleeping form before he steals back into Darktown. Grief is difficult to mend, but he can just about manage a hangover.


	5. The Storyteller

Author's note: Random topic of today: a story!

Summary: Anders doesn't like his new Circle home much - but friends can be found in unlikely places. Set well before Dragon Age: Origins.

Credit for the story Anders tells goes to one of my real life friends, though of course Anders has paraphrased it a little...

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><p><strong>The Storyteller<strong>

The Circle Tower was a cage. A gilded cage, to be sure, with its rich furniture, its collections of paintings and statues, all the pink and black and white marble and of course all the books he'd dreamed of back home – thousands of them, waiting for him to discover their treasures. Right now he'd go for fire and lightning.

Yes, he'd wished for that library and the help he needed to master his magic ever since he accidentally set fire to the barn. But this? To never smell the scent of freshly cut grass again, or feel the rain on his skin? Never run down the hills again and unexpectedly land himself in the duck pond? Those faceless Templars always _watching_?

There was a sound of muffled sobbing.

He stopped in his angry tracks. Suddenly curious he followed the sound into an empty study to find a small girl curled up against the wall with a book in her lap. She was probably only a few years younger than him, but he was a human boy and she was just a stripling of an elven girl, all arms and legs and ears.

Tears leaked from her large green eyes, streaming down her cheeks onto the book, which he carefully took out of her hands. "Hey there. Uh. What's wrong?"

She didn't reply straight away and he quickly glanced over the soggy page.

It was a children's story about a little white dog separated from his cruel master that found himself in the care of a loving family – until his owner came back. The dog couldn't forget, though, and ran away from his master, but when he returned he saw the family play with their own pet and thought they'd forgotten him. The little dog, heartbroken, returned to his master, and only the family mourned their beloved little friend when they heard he'd died of sorrow.

He sat down next to the elven girl who was now self-consciously wiping her face with the sleeve of her robe.

"It's only a story," he said lamely.

"I know."

"Then why are you crying?"

"It's a really _sad_ story!"

He gave this some thought. "True. Maybe you could change it."

"I'm not a storyteller," she sniffled.

"Of course you are. Everyone is. The one who wrote your book just put it on paper, that's all." He gently dabbed at the few remaining teardrops. "Just... make it better."

She hugged her skinny knees to her chest. "Maybe someone else found the little dog."

He nodded encouragingly.

"Someone who didn't like the master much. A hero to dogs, downfall to humans." She brightened. "I like that word. Downfall. Maybe they threw him out of a window?"

He grinned. "See, it's not that difficult."

"No, it isn't." She grinned back. "What's your name?"

"They call me Anders."

"I'm Tierney."

"That's a Fereldan name. It doesn't even sound elfy."

She shrugged. "It doesn't need to. I've lived here since I was four or five."

He vaguely remembered she was among the First Enchanter's star apprentices and felt a quick stab of resentment. "You don't remember where you came from before the Circle?"

"The Alienage?" A small frown furrowed her brow between the emerald eyes. "No, not really. Why?"

Yes, why? Good question. No one'd asked her if she wanted this, like no one'd ever asked him. In this cage of prettily coloured songbirds all taught to sing the same tune, she was a little nightingale, but one pratically born in captivity. She might have the First Enchanter's favour, but she'd never known freedom. The bitterness didn't quite fade entirely, but at least he had the decency to feel a little guilty. "Nevermind."

"Hey, I'm a _mage_, not some... some..."

He laughed at that and at the small hands fisted by her side. "You _are_ an elf. An elven mage."

"Just so you know." She was smiling now. "Do you know any more stories?"

That he did. Most of the tales they swapped back home were scary, many of them were dirty and several of them were about the wickedness of dark witches and nefarious mages. He could nearly smell the burning pine, see the starry sky – and feel the mistrustful glares.

"Are you alright?"

He ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair and flashed her a crooked smile. "Let me see. Well, there is of course the adventures of the famous Black Wolf of the Wandering Hills, the dreaded assassin Albert..."

"_Albert_?"

"Shh. Albert moved in some very mysterious circles... his one leg was shorter than the other, you see. He just about backstabbed anyone with anything; Stab-stabbety-stab-stab, the thieves guilds nicknamed him. His most amazing feat was luring a victim to the Denerim docks and running him through with a ship. People still talk about that. One day however he tried to backstab a griffon. Being a four-legged creature, the griffon was quite pissed off at being stabbed in the bottom and ate Albert, ending his reign of terror. There. End of story."

He looked at her proudly with a mischievous glimmer in his brown eyes. The girl stared back increduously, then keeled over with laughter. After a while Anders pulled her to her feet. She still stood there still giggling with her book under her arm while he fished a pencil out of the pockets of his robe and pressed it into her hand. "Here. For if you need to make something better."

"Thank you." She beamed at him before leaving him standing alone in the study.

It was suddenly very empty and confining once more. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling sullen and gloomy again. A raven-haired, pointy-eared head poked itself around the door. "I nearly forgot. Here." She extended a small hand and dropped something into his palm. It was a tiny figurine of a templar, complete with unremovable helmet. Well, that certainly made sense.

He stared at it. "Um. Thanks?"

She smiled knowingly. "You can think of a place for it." With that she ran away to her apprentice quarters, as Anders slowly felt his own grin widen.

* * *

><p>Ser Donal sighed. "Alright, who's the funny one?"<p>

He didn't really expect an answer, nor did he get one, except for some snickering and pointing. The templar took off his gauntlet and snaked his hand into the mouth of the stone mabari that guarded the dormitory entrance. The offending templar figurine was wedged in quite tightly, but he couldn't very well leave it there as an affront to templar authority. Stifling a curse, he tried to dislodge the little templar by force.

Suddenly the mabari's stone jaws snapped shut. This time, Ser Donal did swear. Tierney curiously studied the helpless templar, then burst out laughing along with the other apprentices. The trapped Ser Donal let out a new string of colourful expletives.

"I'll find out who did this! _Shut up!_ This is _not _funny!"


End file.
